Losing Judas
by LadyPaperclip
Summary: Chase has suddenly become Wilson's new best friend and he doesn't like it. [slash, ChaseWilson]
1. Part One

**Author's Notes: **Based around "Finding Judas", so season 3 spoilers. I don't own the show in any way shape or form so suing me will waste everyone's time. Reviews are shiny and made of love!

**Losing Judas**

_Part One_

I. _He told me all romantics meet the same fate someday._

It's raining and Wilson is dripping all over Chase's previously immaculate flooring. He is completely drenched, blue shirt soaked right through, hair plastered flat to his skull.

"He stole my pad," he says quietly, and Chase watches him without saying anything because he isn't at all sure why Wilson is here and also he just had his floor cleaned and now he's going to have to get it done again. "He stole my fucking prescription pad, and forced me to lie to the fucking cops about it."

"Ok." Chase wonders if this is Wilson's breakdown and, if so, why he has to be there to witness it. He knows that he's not nearly comforting enough. "You should have gone to Cameron."

"Too much of a sense of right and wrong," Wilson explains. Chase almost smiles. Process of elimination, or not. Either way, it explains a lot.

"Want some dry clothes?" he asks. For the first time, Wilson seems to notice his sodden state, and a frown creases his features.

"Please," he replies, pulling his tie off and dropping it. It makes a squelching sound, and Chase grimaces before making his way to his bedroom and the endless rows of shirts and slacks folded up in drawers. When he comes back to the living room, most of Wilson's clothes are in a pile on the floor and he's shivering. Chase puts the clothes on the end of the couch and then goes to get him a towel too.

While Chase would have to admit that once or twice he's imagined Wilson dripping wet and almost naked in his apartment (tuxedos look really damn good on the guy, and Chase is still human, despite House's best efforts to the contrary), it wasn't in these circumstances. And he barely watches as Wilson gets dressed again. Well, maybe he sneaks a peek. Just one. No more than four, anyway.

"Come on," he says, "I'll take you for a drink."

Wilson frowns at him slightly, one of those _looks_ on his face.

"You came here," Chase points out, "You don't get to judge me."

So Wilson nods and Chase drives them both out to a bar, because Wilson actually _walked_ all the way to Chase's apartment, in the rain, in his shirtsleeves, and Wilson has one beer without saying a thing and then calls a cab to go home. Chase nurses a gin and tonic alone and wonders what the hell made Wilson think of _him_ in the first place.

II. _For the last time you would officially cross my line._

Being Wilson's last resort is somewhat disturbing. Chase supposes that Wilson needs someone to talk to, because House is pretending that none of this is happening and Cuddy has to protect her hospital and Cameron would probably do something drastic because her personality did something slightly unsettling over that impossibly long summer and Foreman doesn't care. But Chase doesn't care either. Not really. He and Wilson have never been close and if he's truly honest he's never really felt any desire to be friends with the vague and Monogamously Challenged oncologist.

"So House is screwing your life up," he says over a coffee, "That's not my problem."

Wilson looks like he hasn't slept in days.

"House isn't screwing my life up," he replies, "Tritter is screwing my life up because I won't testify against House."

"Same difference," Chase points out. His head hurts. There's altogether too much truth floating around at the moment and he may be losing his common sense shard by shard, but even he knows not to get involved with House and Wilson's Crazyfun Carousel Of Knives. Everyone gets cut to ribbons and then House pours salt in the wounds because he's so _good _at that and it never ends well.

"I don't know what to do," Wilson admits quietly. Chase sighs.

"And _I don't care_," he replies. "I'm sorry Wilson, I know this is all very traumatising for you, but it's none of my business. Nothing you or I can say will make the blindest bit of difference; I have to go back to working for House tomorrow morning, you have to be his best friend and defend him until you've got nothing left. It's the way it works."

There's hurt in Wilson's eyes. Chase pretends he can't see it; he's been tricked into getting himself involved with things he shouldn't before, and now most of the hospital staff seem to regard him as some kind of emotionally retarded, sleazy joke. Not this time.

"If you really want to find someone to talk to," he continues, deciding that being Wilson's Last Resort is not conducive to retaining his sanity _or_ getting himself back on House's good side (where things aren't any better but at least they won't get worse), "Then start screwing the nurses. Hell, get married again. You seem to be really good at that."

Wilson grabs his wrist when he tries to get up, angry now.

"Don't pretend you know the first thing about me," he hisses quietly, "Because you don't know fucking _anything_."

"And I don't want to," Chase snarls back, pulling his arm free. "Don't put this on me! Put this on Cameron! Get a backbone and stand up to House for once! Just don't tell me, because I don't give a shit, Wilson, ok?"

Chase leaves him sitting there and tells himself that this is no worse than the dozens of other faintly cruel things he's done to save his own skin over the last couple of years.

III. _It's been a bad day, please don't take a picture._

There's nothing about this situation that isn't stupid or screwed-up to a fault, and House is contentedly gallivanting about with Wilson and a guy that he woke from a coma (or a vegetative state, what the hell ever) while his team struggle to save the guy's son. House calls in occasionally, with ever more stupid diagnoses, and they all jump. Dancing to his invisible tune.

What doesn't help is that Detective Tritter is interrupting their day to interview them. And trying to get their stories to align is trickier than Chase would have thought it would be. The three of them have never been in synch, preferring to stab each other in the back and snap and snarl and fuck (well, that was just one time, Cameron was high and he was- Chase has no idea what he was, but he knows it was a bad call), and now they could pay for it.

"Tritter doesn't believe that House only takes eight pills a day," he hisses at Cameron after his own endlessly awkward interview, "Couldn't you have picked something a little more credible?"

"I'm trying not to make him sound like an addict!" Cameron snaps back.

"They found over six hundred pills in his apartment," Chase points out, "It's pretty hard to _not _make him sound like an addict."

"So you sold him out," she says, lips curling with disdain. "Told Tritter that he takes half a bottle on a good day, that he stole Wilson's prescription pad and yours too, and that the diagnostics department would run _oh_ so much better if you were running it?"

"I told him House takes between eight and ten pills a day, that I've written him a couple of prescriptions when he asked because he's in pain, and that I firmly believe Wilson would write prescriptions for a patient in constant agony," Chase snaps back.

Cameron's expression turns to something like penitent surprise. Chase rolls his eyes and decides that at some point, preferably when this is all over, he should really start trying to regain some respect from his co-workers.

The phone rings; House wants an update and Chase returns to the little bubble of the differential diagnosis that they all live in, where everything's impossible and nothing's as it seems but at least he understands most of the rules.

IV. _When does the warning light appear before a man breaks?_

"I backed up your story," Chase says. Maybe it's a peace offering; maybe it's just a statement of fact. Wilson won't look at him either way. His shoulders are hunched, it's late, House has been dragging him about all day on some kind of misguided quest that Chase doesn't want to know about.

"I thought you were trying not to get yourself involved," Wilson murmurs. His voice is tired and bitter.

"Turns out I sort of am involved," Chase shrugs, taking this as an invitation to step into the office.

Wilson lets out an ugly bark of laughter that runs down Chase's spine and hurts.

"Yeah," he mutters, still refusing to turn around, "Because when House goes to jail, you'll get a slapped wrist, a black mark next to your name. You'll get a new job eventually, people will come to think it was _cool_ you were working for Greg House when his star burned out." When he turns, Chase is almost shocked at how haggard he looks. "When House goes to jail, I go with him. I lose my reputation, my license, my life as I know it." He shakes his head; there's something approaching terror in his expression.

"Tritter came to talk to us today," Chase tells him, "We all backed up your story."

Wilson smirks. It's not a nice smirk and its bitterness is almost reminiscent of House on his bad days; it looks wrong on his face and Chase wonders exactly how much of James Wilson is left in that shell. And how much is depression and how much is House.

"Thanks," he says, sardonic edge to his tone, "That means a lot. When this all falls apart and I get arrested, it'll really cheer me up to remember that you _deigned_ to lie to the cops for me."

Chase knows he deserves it. It stings anyway.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he tells him.

"I don't want you to say anything," Wilson replies. He's in so many pieces, it's painful to look at. Chase knows that he doesn't know Wilson as well as he could, or maybe should, but you can't work for House and not see four times as much of Wilson as is necessary, and he has never seen Wilson this weak and broken.

"This'll blow over," he says, "House gets himself into these things, they all work out."

Wilson laughs, properly laughs, it scares the hell out of him.

"I don't know how you've managed to retain that much naïveté," he chokes, "But it's admirable. Worrying, but admirable."

Chase feels himself flush. He supposes he's come to think of House as fallible, so damn fallible, but ultimately invincible. And he is. It's the people on the edges who suffer as a result of his anarchy, his boredom, his bitterness.

"Get out," Wilson tells him, quiet but firm, "I don't want to talk to you."

Chase obeys; he just wants to go home and shower and sleep. And not think about the fact that this time, this time House might have bitten off more than he can chew. Even more than that, he doesn't want to think about the look on Wilson's face.

V. _Your prince's crown cracks apart and falls down_

Chase comes in early to work for reasons even he can't work out. Paper cup of coffee, thumping headache; he knows that today is going to be _bad_. Passing Wilson's office, he hears shouting coming through the door; for a moment he thinks House is in there (the blinds are tight shut) before he realises that it's at least two hours too early for House to be around.

"For God's sake, Laura, let me talk- you're not listening to me! No, you're not! You interrupt me every time I try to explain- no, I know- I'm not doing this on purpose!" A pause. "You're overreacting. I'll sort this out. Yes, I know, I know, I'm a lousy cockroach of a man and you have no faith in me, I've heard it all before, but I will sort this out. It's complicated." Another pause. "Look, Laura, I've got Rose on the other line, let me go and talk to her, and try to calm down."

Chase pushes the office door open. Wilson doesn't even notice.

"Rose, I'm sorry. Look, there are complications, I'm doing what I can. The police are investigating House-" Even Chase can hear the shouting through the phoneline, a woman's voice, furious. "I know, I know how you feel about House, but we're not married any more, if I want to be his friend- the point is I'm really sorry but _there's nothing I can do_." More yelling. "Fine. You do that. It doesn't change the fact that I am powerless. Ok, great. I'm glad you're relieved you insisted on a divorce. I'm going now."

He presses the next call button on the phone and reaches a hand out to Chase.

"Give me your coffee."

Chase obeys, and sits down, while Wilson takes a fortifying gulp and picks up the other call.

"Laura. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you rely on that money, maybe you should try actually holding down a job for once. That could be an exciting project for you while I get this sorted out. And much as I'd like to sit here listening to you list my faults in an increasingly hysterical fashion, I'm going to put the phone down now."

Chase hears the yell of: "The hell you are!"

"My hands are tied, so your shouting at me is not going to fix anything. It's just going to give us both a headache. I will talk to you when the situation changes. Ok? Laura? Great, fuck you too. Goodbye."

He puts the phone down and sighs, rubbing his hands across his face. Chase sits and waits.

"Do you want an explanation?" Wilson asks after a moment. Chase considers that. He's detached. But.

"Yes," he replies.

"The police have frozen my bank accounts as part of their investigation," Wilson tells him. "And both my ex-wives were due alimony payments today." He gives a slightly rueful smile.

"They've frozen your _bank accounts_?" Chase asks, suddenly realising that this is getting drastic. "But-"

"The bank can't fix this," Wilson says, "And it's perfectly legal. So now I have no money, two ex-wives trying to sue and/or kill me, and I'm in the middle of my third divorce and now have no method of funding said divorce."

Chase finds himself saying, "I could-"

"You have less money than I do right now," Wilson replies. "And you don't care, remember?"

"I don't," Chase replies, "But if you testify against House, then I-"

"You don't want to finish that sentence," Wilson says mildly but dangerously, the voice of a man on the edge, "You really don't."

"I'll go," Chase tells him.

"And I'm keeping your coffee," Wilson adds.

"Fine." Chase doesn't look back.

VI. _I don't wanna hear what you want (or who you want)._

A day later, it becomes clear that things are getting worse, not better. Tritter has had Wilson's car impounded and now he can't write prescriptions. But even now, even though it's clear that Wilson's life is falling to pieces and that House has no intention of helping him fix it, Chase ultimately can't care. It's sad, in a pathetic, car-crash kind of way. But it still isn't his problem. And he's relieved when House tells Cameron to go and deal with Wilson's prescriptions; she'll be sympathetic. Chase has no idea how to be sympathetic, and he doesn't want to be either.

Even when House is refusing to let any of their team leave to help Wilson prescribe medication, he doesn't care. It's Wilson's problem. It isn't his.

It's raining again, because apparently that's the perfect weather to compliment this messed-up situation. And Chase is beginning to feel that this whole Tritter thing is going to encompass them all and House is getting harder and colder and edgier but Chase wouldn't write him a Vicodin prescription, even when begged, and he feels that shows he's learning.

Wilson is sitting outside the hospital on a bench, wind in his hair, looking tired. Chase sighs, walks across, and sits beside him.

"If you sit here all night you're going to get ill," he says.

"Yes, because that would make my life so much worse," Wilson mutters, eyes on the wet road.

"I'll drive you home," Chase offers.

"Did Cameron put you up to this?"

"Cameron doesn't care about anyone anymore," Chase replies, pretending it's not bitterness on his tongue, "Haven't you read the memo? She figured a few things out this summer and now caring for your colleagues is out."

"She had to learn sometime," Wilson mutters. "Caring for your co-workers never works out in the end."

"Now you're just getting self-indulgent," Chase tells him. "Come on. I'll drive you home."

"I live in a hotel," Wilson replies, in an eerily calm voice.

"Jesus." Chase gets to his feet. "You're just _asking_ the world to come kick you in the balls, aren't you?"

VII. _My doctor says, "you just took it to the limit"._

"I know you don't care," Wilson says, "And I know you don't want to listen, but I'm going to talk anyway."

Chase ignores him and focuses on the golden scotch in the bottom of his glass. He doesn't want Wilson's pain. He's got enough shit of his own to worry about.

"House gives up on people," Wilson says quietly, "He amuses himself with them for a certain amount of time and then he loses interest and gives up." He sighs. "And now he's given up on me. I am giving up everything for him, absolutely fucking everything, and it doesn't mean a thing to him."

_You idiot_, Chase thinks, _this is what you get for letting House take you over. Your friendship isn't healthy and it isn't really friendship either._

But Wilson's had enough blows dealt to him today, so Chase keeps his mouth shut. It's the least he can do.

"I've got nothing left," Wilson adds. "No wife, no home, no money, no friend, no car, my career is being dragged from my hands-"

"My father died and it turned out that several members of staff at the hospital where I worked that saw me _every single day_couldn't be bothered to tell me, and I wound up killing a mother of two," Chase says.

Wilson laughs, a horrible sound. "Because everything's about you, isn't it Chase? If it doesn't directly affect you, then it doesn't exist."

"Sorry, I thought we were sharing self-indulgent sob stories."

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" Wilson looks genuinely interested, even slightly drunk and slightly damp with rain and Chase knows that Wilson will walk into work tomorrow in one of his shirts and House will _know_ but won't say a word and that will make it all that much worse.

"Empathising- it ends badly," Chase explains.

"Ok." Wilson nods, and lets out a breath. "I- I can't- I- I – can't get out of this. I'm trapped and I can see it just getting worse and worse and spiralling out of control and it's scary and it's almost funny and _there's nothing I can do to make it stop_."

Chase regards Wilson for a very long moment.

"This is the point at which I make very bad decisions," he says, "Just so you know."

"I make bad decisions around now too," Wilson replies, and they both look at each other in trepidation across the table except the concept is neither as mad nor as intimidating as it should be.

Chase pours them both another drink, playing for time.

VIII. _I don't want to be your Superman._

In the breathless second before their lips meet, Chase remembers that he's slightly sane and he's also apparently Wilson's last resort, in spite of his best efforts to the contrary, and although normally he's too apathetic and distant and downright disinterested to be someone's last resort, and he's never done this before, he has just enough sense left to remember that this is not at all a good idea, and it mustn't happen.

He stops Wilson with his fingers against the other man's mouth.

"I can't save you," he says clearly. "And this won't help."

Wilson sits back, closing his eyes like he's in pain.

"I'm sorry," Chase murmurs.

"You're more responsible than I thought you'd be," Wilson mumbles.

A thought strikes Chase.

"Did you plan this?" he asks.

"No." Wilson smirks. Chase reflects that they're both very drunk and this has to stop because things are getting even worse and now they're exacerbating the situation without even trying. "I _didn't_ plan this, because you are a nasty little bastard who is incapable of feeling human emotion."

"Right now, I'm all you've got," Chase reminds him. It's not a comforting thought.

"Oh," Wilson murmurs, "Fuck."


	2. Part Two

IX. _At least be confused about right and wrong._

"Half the hospital is going to be convinced you're sleeping with me," Chase tells an incredibly hungover Wilson, throwing him a clean shirt and tie. Wilson is soaking again, this time from the shower.

"Did you pick your bathroom out from a catalogue?" Wilson enquires, apparently ignoring Chase's comment, "It's very… shiny. And beige." He glances around. "So's the rest of your apartment, actually. Jeez, how do you _live_ here? It's like drowning in a magnolia shoebox."

"Yes, because now's the time to talk about my taste in décor," Chase mutters. His own head is pounding, and he sits down on the couch, clutching his mug of morning coffee like a lifeline. "How about we discuss drapes, and how important it is to match them to the rest of your haberdashery?"

Wilson stares at him, and then down.

"Your drapes match your towels," he says. "That's… highly disturbing."

Chase closes his eyes and leans his head against the back of the couch.

"_Why_ are we having an incredibly awkward conversation about my decorating scheme?" he asks.

"It's the most neutral conversation topic I can think of while it feels like the top of my head is falling off," Wilson explains. "I suppose we could discuss the weather."

Chase makes a very small groaning sound, and listens to Wilson wandering about getting dressed. He takes it as a sign that he's really, really in pain, because he doesn't even try and sneak a peek at Wilson half-naked. Besides, a fatalistic little part of his brain reminds him, given that he's suddenly Wilson's new best friend, he'll have loads more chances to see him in various states of undress. And this isn't necessarily a good thing.

"If you keep going to work in my shirts," he says, "Everyone's going to become convinced we're sleeping together."

"Right now, that's the least of my worries," Wilson replies, a dark edge to his tone. "Let's see. The end of my life as I know it, or a few nurses gossiping that I'm screwing Dr Chase. Hmm, tough one there."

"It matters to me," Chase replies, taking another fortifying sip of coffee and just feeling more irritated.

"Of course it matters," Wilson mutters, "Because it concerns _you_ and your stupid little reputation. You really are the most self-centred person I know, and I've been House's best friend for years."

"If you feel like that, you can bloody walk to work," Chase tells him.

But he drives Wilson in anyway, dropping him a block from Princeton/Plainsboro so that they can retain some small sense of dignity.

X. _These five words in my head scream: are we having fun yet?_

For at least the sixth time in the last two weeks, Chase seriously considers resigning. House is in withdrawal, which is nothing new – been there, done that, watched him break his hand etc etc etc – but it doesn't make life easy, and for some reason, he finds himself avoiding Wilson to a degree that is actually embarrassingly ridiculous. He doesn't know why he should, except that he's tired and things are complicated and Wilson doesn't give him peace of mind or reassurance.

"You don't need to avoid me like I'm a one night stand that wasn't meant to happen," Wilson informs him, catching Chase off-guard in the men's room, and there's something faintly homoerotic and therefore worrying about this whole situation.

"I'm not avoiding you," Chase lies.

"Nothing happened," Wilson shrugs. "It doesn't have to be awkward between us."

"There shouldn't be anything at all between us!" Chase hears his voice becoming a little unsettlingly high-pitched. "We're colleagues, we don't even work in the same department."

"But I'm wearing your shirt and you can't look me in the eye," Wilson responds. Chase lets out a breath, leaning back against the sinks and gripping onto the cold enamel because it's reassuringly solid.

"Stop trying to trap me into your stupid complicated life," he orders. "It's stupid and sad what Tritter is doing to everyone, and what he's doing to you is uncalled for, but I don't want to get involved and I'm tired of you pushing your way into my life with your problems. I have my own problems without you shoving yours in on top of them."

"Defensive little bastard, aren't you?" Wilson's smile is all twisted, it's unsettling. "I'm not trying to drag you into my life, but you do seem to keep pushing in."

Chase doesn't want to hear this. It's a long and irritating enough day without Wilson adding this in.

"Just fuck off and leave me alone, ok?" he snaps. He shouldn't say this, if Wilson and House were on proper speaking terms then Chase would be fired right now, but then, if Wilson and House were speaking then Wilson wouldn't be talking to Chase in the first place. And the whole thing is so knotted that it makes his head _ache_.

Wilson just shrugs, and walks out. And Chase hates it, because now they both know that, in spite of his best efforts to the contrary, Wilson is getting under his skin, so far under that it stings.

XI. _I like the fact that you're nothing like me._

It's a shock, the way that everyone else has their bank accounts frozen. But Chase doesn't. He is anxious, because it means he's being singled out again, it's Vogler all over again, and although he's two years older he's not sure he's all that wiser. It's always supposed to be about the job, but it isn't. He doesn't know what it's all about at the moment, who or what he's protecting, but their backs are against the wall again and he's not going to be the one to give out this time. Even though everyone assumes he has already. He hates the image of him they've all got in their heads, the bastard, cruel bastard, stupid and arrogant and spoilt and selfish. He is all those things, has proven it abundantly to Wilson in the last week or so, but he is a little bit more than that. He's sure he is.

So he lies. It's the only thing he can think of to do, to lie to everyone. If they think his account's frozen, then maybe they won't be so quick to think he's sold House out. He hasn't. Not this time. And he won't, if only to prove a point to himself. So he lies. And Foreman doesn't care, not really, but at least it's the tiniest shield of evidence Chase can think to put up between himself and the rest of the world.

"Your bank account isn't frozen," Wilson announces, leaning over Chase's shoulder on their morning coffee break.

"It is."

"It isn't. Lend me twenty bucks. I want to eat something that isn't made of peanut butter."

"I told you to leave me alone."

"Do you really think I'd get anywhere if I obeyed when people told me to fuck off?" Wilson sounds amused.

"You should have run for your life the first time House told you to," Chase points out. "Then you wouldn't be here begging me for cash."

"Give me the twenty bucks or I'll tell House you sold him out," Wilson shrugs. "Ok?"

"You are-"

"Desperate," Wilson points out. "As I have told you several times, I don't have anything at all. So give me some money and stop acting like we fucked and you can't bring yourself to remember. We didn't even kiss, you put a stop to that. It's fine."

"You were drunk, why do you even remember?"

"I remember everything from when I'm drunk. It's awkward but at times it's useful." Wilson fixes him with a stare. "Where are my twenty bucks?"

"Spoilt brat," Chase mutters, fumbling in his pocket for the money. Wilson just smirks.

XII. _One mistake's all it takes, and your life has come undone._

After Tritter walks away, leaving Chase feeling that once again someone's torn his life from his hands, ripped it inelegantly into shreds, and then handed it back again, expecting him to know what to do with what's left, he wonders exactly what he's going to do. A table full of nursing staff are all glaring at him and in approximately 12.4 seconds House is inexplicably going to find out all about this, and then there are going to be glares and accusations and Foreman and Cameron are going to-

Chase rapidly develops a migraine and goes to find somewhere to hide. He can feel glares and whispers and vaguely remembers how much fun it was, selling House out to Vogler. Oh, it was awkward too, and he didn't exactly intentionally set out to get Wilson dismissed and to force Cameron into quitting, and, fine, the whole thing crashed and burned rather worryingly in the end, but for a while he had this rush of power. It's never a good thing, to have a superiority complex, but that was a long space of time ago. Chase wishes that people wouldn't keep reminding him of his indiscretions.

He hides in exam room one, because no one's in there, and counts to two hundred and fifty six before his heart stops pounding and the world stops being in a million pieces. Eventually, the door opens.

"Tritter's set me up," Chase mumbles from where he's sitting against the wall with his head on his knees.

"Join the club," Wilson says without sympathy in his voice, coming to sit beside him. Chase says nothing at all for a very long time, keeping his eyes closed and not at all thinking about the place where Wilson's shoulder rests against his own. "What has Tritter done?" Wilson cracks eventually.

"He's made it look like I sold House out," Chase replies dully. He should be trying to diagnose their patient, or be making more false calls to the bank to cover his paper-thin little alibi. Not sitting here with Wilson being more self-pitying than is probably healthy. "In front of a room full of people, he's made it look like I gave him up again."

"Did you?" Wilson enquires. There's too much doubt in his voice, and even though Chase wishes that it wouldn't, it hurts.

"No!" he says, raising his head. "Say what you like about me, I don't make the same mistake twice."

"Why do that when there are so many new and exciting mistakes to make?" Wilson remarks dryly, and Chase wants to point out that Wilson knows fuck all about him, so could he please stop judging him, except that he gets the feeling that Wilson knows everything he needs to know about Chase. Chase has never exactly been complicated. Issue-laden, family screwed up to an almost inhuman degree, makes bad mistakes for no discernable reason, yes; but once you realise all that he's hardly an enigma.

"You're one to talk," he mumbles, giving Wilson a pointed look. Wilson gives him one back and then they both start laughing.

"I don't know what you're complaining about," Wilson says. "Your bank account isn't frozen and hasn't been, you're still living in an unnervingly co-ordinated apartment, even if you get fired you can probably ride your father's name right along to your next job-"

"If House doesn't bash my head in with his cane and hide my body in Cuddy's backyard," Chase interrupts. "He barely let me get away with this last time, if he thinks I've sold him out a second time-"

"I told him he should fire you," Wilson says, as though that makes the whole situation better, "If he'd listened to me then you wouldn't be worrying right now."

"Thank you, that makes me feel so much better," Chase mumbles. Wilson just laughs, and Chase thinks about snapping something at him, but his pager goes off, and he has to go back to pretending that none of it matters.

XIII. _The same thing that blew us together might blow us apart._

Chase has drunk too much coffee and the world is a little blurry in front of his eyes, but he supposes that compared to House, he's perfect and fine, so he doesn't complain. The office has this edge in it. He's used to the office having edges, pointed glares, uncomfortable subtext that no one wants to make text, but… this is new, and different, and scary. Foreman and Cameron, now their bank accounts have been released, are certain that Chase sold House out, and won't look him in the eye. He has déjà vu so bad it makes him sick, but there's a little girl dying and this time he's completely innocent and so much less smug, so Chase pretends to let it go.

House isn't going to let it go easily, but he's also pretending that it doesn't matter. Alone, calmly severing ties with anyone who cares about him, in case they try to step in and intervene. Even Cameron, although she hasn't sold him out, is biting her teeth together and glaring at everything House says, and that pretty much indicates that hell is in the process of freezing over. Chase sighs, and gets himself another coffee; nothing could surprise him any more.

Except that there's a little girl and all they seem to be doing is messing her up and House should really be taken off the case, it would be the only logical thing to do, except that there's no one else to turn to. Cuddy has lost all confidence in herself, Foreman, Chase and Cameron aren't good enough, and although Chase is sure the Head of Paediatric medicine should be somewhere around and helping out, she really isn't. No one wants to get near House, terrified of the possible repercussions.

Chase goes down to the lounge because he's running out of ideas and he's supposed to be the traitor here anyway, might as well give everyone something to whisper about. Wilson is sitting reading the newspaper and filling the crossword wrong, eating another peanut butter sandwich.

"I don't even want to think about how many of those you've eaten over the last few days," Chase says, sitting down next to Wilson. "It can't be good for you."

"Gee, you should be a doctor," Wilson mutters distractedly. "What can I do for you, Chase?"

"Get House off the case," Chase says. "He's in withdrawal, he's got Cuddy completely under his control, we're just making the girl sicker, and-"

"You're kidding, right?" Wilson gives him an amused look, and when Chase doesn't crack, he starts laughing. "House doesn't listen to me any more. He doesn't give a fuck about what I say or do. I can't achieve any more than you can."

Chase sighs, and takes the sandwich from Wilson.

"Hey!" Wilson protests mildly. "You can buy real food, don't take mine."

Chase pushes another crumpled bill at him, and walks back to diagnostics, brushing crumbs off his fingers and wondering if there's anyone left in the world that House would listen to.

"Why are we still protecting him?" he asks Cameron, an hour or so later. She shrugs, forgetting herself for a moment, then remembers to give him a cruel look, clearly saying that she believes Chase sold House out and should stop trying to justify himself.

Chase realises that, for better or worse, they'll cling to their sinking ship of lies. Reasons no longer matter.

XIV. _From where I stand you're in my sky._

In the space of time after House lands a really, really good punch on his jaw, Chase thinks about suing his boss, thinks about pressing charges for assault, thinks about going to see Wilson and going _but he hit me!_, thinks about going to Tritter. He does none of those things. He makes sure their patient's going to be fine, and sits with Cameron and Foreman in the too-shiny diagnostics office. House has gone home, presumably to wander about his apartment kicking stuff and complaining to the bookshelves about why he has no drugs left, and with him gone there's something oddly reminiscent of the days when it was just the three of them, silently crazy in the office.

Cameron holds an icepack against his chin, which makes the pain into a beautiful and deep purple bruise that blossoms over the course of an hour or so.

"I didn't sell him out," Chase says determinedly. Cameron stares at him for a long moment, shrewd gaze, and Chase wonders vaguely when she became this woman that none of them really recognise.

"I believe you," she says, avoiding his gaze suddenly, handing him the icepack. "I think you can handle holding an icepack to your chin for a while."

Chase can't work out if Foreman mutters _you pussy_ or not, and doesn't care either way. He just sits, and sits, and watches it get dark and listens to Cameron and Foreman attempt to have conversations and then trail off mid-line. He's still sitting there when Cameron announces she's going home, offering him an awkward smile, and Foreman, for all his derogatory remarks and insistence that Chase brought this on himself, gives his shoulder a supportive squeeze as he walks out.

Eventually, Chase flicks off all the lights in the department and makes his way downstairs, deciding that he's tired and angry and hates _everyone_ and _everything_ today. Maybe it's childish, but his face hurts and nothing at all is right. And when he goes into the lounge on the way out, he discovers Wilson's eaten all the peanut butter, seriously, _all_ the peanut butter, which makes his pb-and-j sandwich a little too much j and not enough pb.

He storms out, more wound up than ever, and pretends that he didn't see the perturbed expression on Wilson's face.

XV. _All these poses of classical torture ruined my mind like a snake in the orchard._

Chase pulls open the door and of course it's Wilson, he can't exactly say that he's surprised. But there's a look in Wilson's eyes and Chase takes a step back.

"What have you done?" he demands. Wilson remains silent. "What the hell have you done?"

"It's best that you have no idea," Wilson responds steadily, "Then at least when you talk to House tomorrow you won't have to lie."

"Oh, God," Chase says softly.

"Can I come in?" Wilson asks. Chase considers just slamming the door in his face and seeing how Wilson likes _that_, but it's a little too late for that now, so instead he shrugs and lets Wilson walk in and shut the door.

"I didn't ask you to do this!" Chase explodes after a moment of perfect silence.

"I know."

"I didn't _want_ you to do this."

"No one said you did." Wilson is way too calm, and Chase is slightly scared now; House has already hit him once this week. "What makes you think it's all about you?"

"What, I'm _not_ the tipping point? It was just a coincidence that you decided to- to- directly after you saw that-"

"Ok, fine, maybe you were!" Wilson looks angry, and Chase has never seen him like this before, and it unnerves him, "Maybe I did do it because of you!"

"Fuck." Chase rubs a hand over his face, aware that he's trembling. Suddenly a whole lot of things are becoming worryingly clear. And Wilson doesn't even have the grace to look embarrassed, and Chase almost hates him for it.

"How many times do I have to tell you that _I don't care _about you or your life or your problems with House before it _sticks_?" Chase snarls.

Wilson still looks frustratingly composed.

"You take me for drinks, drive me places when I have no car, let me sleep on your couch, listen to me complaining, lend me your clothes, and find yourself offering comfort even though you don't want to," he responds, "If that's not your definition of 'caring' then I'm really interested as to what is." Chase just stares. "Hate me, fine, but you've been so busy trying to keep me at arms' length that you haven't even noticed that you've been-"

"Shut up!" Chase shouts. He knows it's childish. That doesn't matter. "You have to make everything so fucking complicated, that's your problem, and I wish you'd just _stop_!"

Wilson's expression is inscrutable but his voice is tight.

"Fine," he snaps, "Let's try something a little less complex."

And then he's moving, tilting Chase's bruised chin up, and kissing him. It's hard and certain and Chase can't even try to protest. But in some little place in Chase's mind not currently occupied with the clenching of Wilson's hand in his hair and the wet heat of his mouth, he finally realises something.

"You've played me," he gasps, "Every fucking step of the way."

Wilson considers this.

"Well, no," he says, "I really did need someone to talk to, and House really has fucked me over."

Chase knows that much is true, but he also finally works out that Wilson has been using every spare moment into convincing Chase that he really does care, and it's too late to back out now.

"You manipulative bastard," he hisses, and Wilson shrugs, looking more like House than ever for one heart-stopping moment.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asks.

Chase considers this, but there really aren't a whole lot of options.

Fucking _brilliant_.


End file.
